


Auld Lang Syne

by Lassroyale



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Apocalypse, Bittersweet, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Drug Use, Episode: s05e04 The End, Fic Exchange, Future Castiel, Future Dean Winchester, Future Fic, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Recreational Drug Use, Season/Series 05, Supernatural AU: Croatoan/End'verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-24
Updated: 2011-06-24
Packaged: 2017-10-20 16:42:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lassroyale/pseuds/Lassroyale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Should old acquaintances be forgotten, And never brought to mind?<br/>Should old acquaintances be forgotten, And days of long ago?"<br/>- Auld Lang Syne</p>
            </blockquote>





	Auld Lang Syne

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the deancas_xmas Secret Santa Exchange, for my recipient who wanted something set in the 5.04 future. I have to honestly say it was a hard write for me, but with the help of my beta I got it done. I hope you guys enjoy it!

Castiel never questioned why he still kept a Bible.

He knew the reason as well as he knew the plain fact that he was now human and had once been an angel.

He didn't keep it for comfort, and, truth be told, it wasn't likely to bring him any. In fact, the hard shape of the book shoved beneath his threadbare mattress often brought him more _discomfort_ , than anything else. Besides, it'd been a long while (a lifetime, even) since he'd felt anything other than old anger and well-worn bitterness when it came to anything associated with Heaven. 

Overall, the Bible was in rough condition. Its pages were smudged and bent from years of carelessness and mishandling, and its spine was cracked and rent with deep creases. At one point, it had been dropped in a puddle or left out in the rain; across several pages the ink had bled, turning the words into illegible smears. That was of little matter told Castiel; he knew them all (every word, letter and punctuation mark) by heart. 

Castiel had taken the Bible upon - as he would later realize - something of a whim, removing it from the room of a motel at which Dean had once stayed, early in their relationship. 

As far as motel Bibles went, it was a standard King James version Bible. At first glance, it seemed about as common and ordinary as they come. However, there was one, fleeting event in its otherwise unremarkable history, that made this book special above all others: _this_ was the Bible that Dean had clutched, feverish and sick with ghost fever, as he'd been haunted by hallucinations of Lilith. It was the Bible that Dean had held tight to him, its hard edges etching lines into his palms and his fingers cramped so tightly around it, it was as if he'd been trying to squeeze a protective essence directly from its pages. It was the Bible into which Dean had breathed his _own_ essence, in one moment of utter faith; one moment of pure desperation and true belief: the moment when he pressed his lips against the hard leather cover and _prayed_.

Castiel knew why he still kept a Bible - _that particular Bible._  He kept it because it was a reminder of what Dean used to be. And too, it represented what Dean had now become.

Its frayed edges were Dean's frayed edges. Its missing words  were the fragments of Dean's missing hope. Its bent and torn spine was every jagged tear upon Dean's flesh, upon his heart, and upon his soul. And Castiel felt all of its imperfections as acutely as he felt Dean's. He'd stitched Dean back together, after all; bone-by-bone and sinew-by-sinew. He could hardly have done so without leaving a bit of himself etched into the template.

In the end, Castiel kept the Bible because even with all of his missing angel mojo, he could _feel_ the echo of the old Dean in its every fluttering page. That small trace, as thin and faded though it was, gave him hope. It was a desperate, enduring type of hope, and very fragile at that, but it was his - all his - as Dean had once been before.

  
**-VVV-**

  
The winter of 2013 was going to be a brutal one; the air had turned bitter and cold, just as the leaves had begun falling from the trees.

  
Dean had made sure that they had all they could scavenge stocked up for the long winter ahead, but Castiel knew that behind the rictus of his false smile, he was concerned. He'd caught him inventorying supplies and rations with Chuck, his eyes blazing as he barely reined in his anger; anger that Castiel could feel burn through the air and sap the oxygen from his lungs, squeezing his chest like iron bands that slowly cracked each rib.

The material circumstances and the psychological ones were already taking their toll on the members of the camp: they seemed to be stretched thin, with bones pressed against bare flesh and eyes sunken against sharp cheekbones. They would fight because Dean asked them to, but Castiel could see as well as Dean, that many of them wouldn't outlive the cold snap. They would survive if Dean asked them to, as well - they had so far - but every day spent squatting in these damp cabins with Death chained right outside the door, was taking its toll on everyone.

Dean saw it. Cas saw it. And the former angel dealt with that knowledge the same way he typically did: he got fucking wasted.

It wasn't a novel thing to him anymore - maybe the first few dozen times had been - but now getting high was almost a necessity, because living and being human was fucking _difficult_.

It wasn't like falling from Grace came with a handbook. Castiel had had to take the crash-course in learning to be human, and it'd come replete with pain, bitterness, and a wealth of other (mostly unpleasant) emotions that he was _still_ learning how to deal with.

He'd learned about scrapes and cuts and infections while climbing over rusted barbed wire with Dean, as they ran from crowds of Crotes. He'd discovered sickness and fever after drinking, of all things, dirty water. He'd discovered what it truly was to be cold, his head bowed under the driving rain as he hid from the demons that he could once have destroyed with a mere touch of his fingers. He learned what it was to nearly starve, closely rationed meals of gruel and stale bread hardly enough to sustain the soldiers in their ridiculously outmatched struggle against Lucifer.

He'd learned what it meant to feel utterly helpless: in other words, he'd learned what it was to be _human_

Castiel cradled the metal pipe between his hands and sucked in a deep lungful of smoke. He sighed in relief, letting the thick vapor curl from his nostrils and dissipate into the air. It took the edge off as usual, and dulled the constant ache he felt just below his shoulder blades.

It did nothing to dull the one in his heart.

  
**-VVV-**

  
There was little leisure time for survivors of the Apocalypse - even less so during the short days of winter. Every day was scheduled to utilize the precious sunlight, distant and oblique as it lingered above them before disappearing entirely.

Castiel was keeping watch out at one of his favorite posts: the rusting, crumbling monument that had been the Impala. He pulled his blue skullcap low over his ears and blew onto his cupped hands in an attempt to warm them. Dirt had become a permanent fixture beneath the rim of his fingernails and he was absently sucking on the tip of his thumb, when a voice from behind him cut through the air.

"That's a disgusting habit."

Castiel half-turned to regard Dean from out of the corner of his eye. He'd felt him approach in a tremor of simple _knowing_ that ran the length of his spine, but as usual he'd ignored it and pretended not to notice.

As usual Dean didn't mention that he'd found him by the same feeling, though _his_ emanated from a particular spot on his left bicep.

"All quiet on the western front, oh Fearless One," greeted Cas with a cheerful smile so false, it was painful to wear. A deep crease appeared in Dean's brow; then again, these days it seemed to be permanently affixed to the man's once smooth countenance.

  
"Knock it off, Cas," he muttered and settled beside him on the hood of the Impala. Where someone else would have relaxed, Dean sat stiff and straight. He cast his gaze outwards, ever vigilant, less man than soldier these days, and Castiel tried not to let the ache of his heart translate into something physical. He wasn't allowed to touch anymore - not Dean, at least. Not unless Dean Winchester wanted to be touched.

So he settled himself a bit more comfortably on the cold metal and hunched his shoulders, glancing off and away. He began to chew on the tip of his thumb again, waiting for Dean to speak; it wasn't often that the other man sought him out anymore, so he knew that this visit had a purpose.

Finally, as if satisfied that the silence had stretched on uncomfortably enough, Dean spoke in the roughhewn voice that had become the default for him over the past few years. "Listen, I was thinkin' of having a Christmas this year."

Castiel turned his head so suddenly he got whiplash. He looked hard at Dean, a corner of his mouth pulling downward into a frown. "Why?" he asked simply. Out of habit, he tilted his head slightly to one side as he regarded the other man.

To Castiel's surprise, Dean heaved a great sigh instead of replying with a cutting retort. The mask dropped in front of his eyes. Dean scrubbed his hands over his face wearily, and it was such an unconsciously childlike gesture, that it made it difficult for Castiel to refrain from reaching out to him. For the first time in months, Dean looked Castiel directly in the eye. "I dunno Cas, I just dunno. I just feel like something's coming, like this might be the last chance I can give people to celebrate something before the world goes to Hell."

"Hasn't it already?" murmured Castiel, leaning slightly towards Dean, drawn by the grief and regret that saturated the other man's gaze. It was a palpable sensation for him, for, try as he might, he could never quite dampen that connection between them; not that he'd tried very hard, anyway.

"Yeah, pretty much," said Dean, still looking vulnerable, _open_ , "and goddamn if I know how to stop it. But I can do this."

Dean glanced up at Castiel again and he noticed how the other man's gaze flickered over his face, pausing briefly to touch upon the dark circles beneath his eyes. Dean seemed to tip forward, almost drunkenly leaning toward him, before he pulled himself back upright at the last moment and scowled. He shoved a hand into his pocket and pulled something out which he held out towards Castiel.

Castiel took what Dean had thrust at him and watched as the other man walked away at a fast, determined clip. He looked down at what was in his hands and felt his own smile come unstitched.

It was a pair of Dean's gloves. It was a pair he'd seen Dean wear before on numerous hunts. The brown leather across the knuckles was worn thin and there were burn marks along the tips of the forefinger and thumb. They were perfectly fine.

Despite the numbness of his hands, Castiel took his time to push his fingers into the gloves. He could feel Dean's warmth linger along the pads of his fingers and the lines of his palms. If he concentrated hard enough, he could recall the feel of Dean's hands in his own.

For the first time in forever, he didn't feel cold right down to his bones.

  
**-VVV-**

  
While Castiel had still been an angel, Dean had never wanted to celebrate Christmas as most other people did. He'd told him there wasn't much worth celebrating and that most people were sorry sons of bitches who didn't realize how lucky they were to be blissfully ignorant of the _true_ nature of things.

Of course Castiel hadn't necessarily shared that sentiment because he had been a little less cynical, and not just because he'd been an angel. He'd enjoyed the heartfelt caroling, was as appreciative of warm apple cider as anyone else, and had thought of the mistletoe tradition as just another quirk of human culture.

The thing that intrigued him the most, however, was the tradition of chopping down a tree, dragging it back to the home, and decorating it. It seemed impractical.

As Cas trudged through deep snow with Dean, he _knew_ it was impractical.

"How about that one, Paul Bunyan?" he asked, moving his mouth in another ironical smile, pointing to a tree that both of them knew would be impossible to fell with just two axes and a handsaw.

"Shut up, Cas!" snapped Dean. "Pay attention. We've still got as much chance to be jumped out here as anywhere else."

"Yes," said Castiel, and scanned the horizon. "I know."

They walked on, the silence broken only by the crunch of wet snow beneath their boots and the occasional, mournful cry of a bird far off in the distance.

"What's with the Paul Bunyan stuff, anyway?" asked Dean offhandedly, a hint of delayed annoyance in his tone.

Castiel shrugged, trying to ignore the fact that his hands were icy even with the gloves.

"You told me about him once," he replied, unable to keep the bitterness from out of his tone, "of how he was the best lumberjack and he had a big blue ox named Babe." He laughed then, a staccato sound that echoed through the frigid air. "Then you called me Babe because you said everyone needed a big dumb sidekick like Paul."

Dean made a noise that sounded like a chuckle, but a snicker swallowed it. The noise made Castiel's chest hurt and the corners of his mouth ache.

"There," proclaimed Dean, finally stopping and pointing to a small, sad little tree surrounded by the looming trunks of its brothers. The larger trees around it had stunted its growth and its leaves had been unable to get sufficient sunlight for it to grow and thrive. Cas thought he knew why Dean had chosen it and when he looked at him, there was a dark, almost introspective expression on the other man's face.

It dared him to challenge his choice.

It was easier not to, so Castiel gave a small nod and hefted his axe. "Looks like it'll be a good Christmas after all, Charlie Brown."

Dean gave him a pointed look. "You high?" he asked curtly.

"No," answered Cas, "I just like Charlie Brown."

"When did you ever see Charlie Brown?" the other man asked with a hint of genuine curiosity.

"I had to do something while you were sleeping, all those nights."

Something became shuttered and closed in Dean's face. He turned away from him. "Let's get movin' on this," he replied. "The sooner we get this done the better."

"Yeah," said Cas, "I guess so."

His words were met with the sound of Dean's axe biting into wood and nothing else.

 

**-VVV-**  


  
Castiel broke his foot a few days before Christmas.

He wished he could say that it happened while he was doing something heroic, but it didn't. He broke it while running for his life from a horde of Crotes after he'd somehow fallen behind the group during a routine run for supplies. He'd known why he'd fallen behind, too - the pain in his back and shoulders had been nearly crippling that day. But Dean had asked him to go on the raid and so he'd gone.

He never could deny anything Dean wanted.

He'd taken a tiny detour in his search for narcotics - Vicodin, Percocet, _anything_ \- to help with the terrible ache, when their lookout had shouted out a warning. He'd stayed a minute too long, desperately peering around for the little bottle that would spell relief in so many letters, before he realized that he was alone. He'd taken off, the drugs forgotten, intending to catch up with his group. Adrenaline made the instinct for self-preservation triumph over his physical pain, and in his blind flight he'd run smack into an infected horde.

Castiel had been running down the street – away, away, away – when something that felt like a flesh-covered tank had sidelined him. He'd gone down and gone down _hard_ , hitting his head and wrenching his knee painfully in a direction it hadn't been meant to go. He'd managed to recover quickly enough, but when he’d started running again his foot caught on a crevice in the road and his knee, already protesting the strain, gave out.

He’d pitched forward, heard a crack, and wasn't even aware of the shooting pain up his leg until he’d tried to crawl forward and stand. He'd collapsed again and by then the Crotes were upon him.

He'd fired blindly into the seething mob, feeling his heartbeat wild and erratic as he fought to stay alive - it wasn't his time, not yet, _not while Dean still needed him_ \- and heard a distant shout filter through the rush of blood pounding through his veins.

There'd been an explosion of some sort that had deafened him and he'd felt heat and a wave of shock pass over him. Then all had gone black.

  
**-VVV-**

  
Castiel knew who had saved him. He knew whose fingers had picked out the gravel from his wounds and cleaned them. He knew whose hands had splinted and wrapped his foot. He knew whose lips had brushed his forehead, dry and warm against his brow.

_Dean had saved him._

And that just opened up a whole realm of possibilities that was too painful to think about.

  
**-VVV-**

  
In the still of the night with a candle keeping its flickering vigil over his shoulder, Castiel pulled the Bible from under his mattress and pressed it to his lips.

Then he prayed.

The words felt odd and foreign on his tongue, for the language of faith had been absent from him for the better part of four years. Yet faith was his first language and though his prayers were halting and coated with sarcasm at first, slowly the knots in his chest and throat began to unwind and he was able to speak and think clearly.

It was the most selfish, the most sincere prayer he would ever make, as he asked his Father - he'd never been able to fully give up the idea that he was still out there - to let Dean finally rest. He prayed that Dean would be rewarded for his sacrifices and be allowed peace at the end of days. Finally he asked, with the last of his waning hope and with no small amount of desolation twisting in his heart, that he be allowed to go with Dean.

It was the best, and also perhaps the only redemption he could hope for: to be with Dean when it was finally over, because without Dean Winchester, Castiel's existence didn't mean a damn thing.

  
**-VVV-**

  
The eve of Christmas was heralded with fresh snowfall. (Under the circumstances, it didn't exactly bring much joy to anyone's heart.) The day was remorselessly cold and it was the kind of chill that Castiel could feel seep down into his bones. It magnified the constant ache of his shoulders and back, and forced an acute awareness of his recently injured foot.

Suffice to say, Castiel had little enthusiasm for whatever the day might bring.

Still, if anything, Cas had gotten fairly good at faking it. His wide grin and easy laughter were accepted and appreciated by those who came by to wish him well. He played the role he'd fallen into with some semblance of finesse - a Jester with a despondent smile - and fooled those who needed to be fooled. He managed it all rather admirably, until the one person who could see straight through the masquerade came to visit in the early hours of the evening.

"How's your foot?" asked Dean from where he'd appeared in the doorway in heavy coat that was a size too small. Castiel knew he'd taken it from a dead body, because he'd watched him squat over the dead man - a veteran of the Vietnam War if his dog tags had been anything to go by - before rolling the corpse and taking the jacket and boots.

Dean stepped in after a moment of indecisiveness, letting in a draft of cold air behind him. At that point Castiel's face hurt from smiling so much when really he didn't feel like smiling at all, that he let his shoulders drop and turned away from him.

"Feeling as good as broken foot can feel, I guess," he replied, a chord of sour humor lacing his tone. "I've never had something broken before so I can't compare."

Dean made a noise of disgust as he shrugged out of his coat and draped it over the back of a chair. "You could be more grateful," he grunted, glancing at him. "You could've been injured worse."

Cas responded with a shrug. He could feel Dean's anger mounting like it was a tongue of flame; even a year ago he would have felt it lick his skin and char his flesh. "Why should it matter? It's not like I'm particularly useful, Dean. You and I both know that."

"You could have died," said Dean flatly. Though it didn't seem like much, Dean's flat admission spoke volumes and the bald statement startled Castiel. He looked at Dean briefly and looked away just as quickly - the expression in Dean's eyes fairly scalded him.

"And?" questioned Castiel. "One less mouth to feed - isn't that your philosophy?"

"This is different," snapped Dean with a flash of rage that Castiel could feel scrape against the back of his throat. At another time in their lives the other man would have stormed right into his personal space, anger turned to action. He would have grabbed him, shoved him, hit him...kissed him. He would have forced him to react - to _feel_.

That was then, this was now, and Dean only stood across the room and regarded him with a sort of intensity that made something jerk violently in his gut. A twinge of knife-sharp longing bled through him. He smiled. Dean scowled, but Cas' voice was deadly serious when he asked, "Why Dean?"

"Because it's YOU Cas!" Dean yelled, finally yielding to habit. The tension that had been drawn taut between them, snapped. "Look at you. You used to be able to _fly_ or travel places with just a thought - however the hell it was that you got around. But now..." the fight seemed to ebb from Dean and he sank down onto a chair near Castiel's bed, his voice dropping as he continued, "now you broke your _foot_. "

Dean looked at Castiel with an expression that he recognized as plain scared. He couldn't find it in him to grin; not at that. Instead he sighed and looked away, towards the window where snow was beginning to fall gently outside. "I know," Cas replied quietly, "it's..." he trailed off, unable to voice the sadness and hurt that filled him every day that passed since he'd fallen. Every day that he came closer to his own mortality.

He felt the bed dip as Dean settled his weight next to him, but continued to look away even when the other man took his hand. " _I_ know," whispered Dean.

For a long time the pair was quiet, each lost to their own thoughts; each taking comfort from the feel of the other's hand in their own as the snow fell silently outside. There was nothing _to_ say; not then. The familiar comfort of Dean's hand around his own was enough for Castiel. It was the comfort of knowing that Dean could still come to him and let down his guard...it was the comfort of knowing that Dean still needed him. It reminded him of the first time he'd ever really _talked_ to Dean, as they shared a similarly peaceful moment on a park bench on the day after All Hallow's Eve.

It seemed like a lifetime ago. If Castiel were a romantic, he might say that _that_ was the dream and this moment right here, had always been the reality.

He didn't say anything when Dean stretched out next to him, mindful of his injured foot as he curled against his side. This moment, Cas knew, was fragile - vulnerable to the lightest breeze, a single syllable, or a careless word. So he simply closed his eyes and set himself to memorize the feel of Dean's head tucked under his chin, shifting slightly as the other man wearily draped his arm across his belly.

Within moments, Dean was asleep, and Castiel could tell from his breathing and the smooth planes of his face, that he was sleeping peacefully for the first time in many months. As he lay there and listened to Dean's breathing - nearly in time with his own - he too drifted off.

 

**-VVV-**

 

Some hours later, Castiel was pulled briefly from his rest by the sound of Dean's voice low in his ear.

"Merry Christmas, Cas," whispered the other man. His breath was familiar and warm against his skin and it was a feeling he'd missed every day, ever since Sam Winchester had said, "yes".

He opened his eyes and gave Dean a sleepy smile. "Merry Christmas, Dean Winchester," he replied drowsily. Castiel felt himself drift off again, bone-deep exhaustion and a temporary relief from the chronic ache beneath his shoulders pulling him back below the blanket of sleep. Before he slipped away entirely, he registered the press of Dean's soft lips against his own; feather-light and achingly gentle.

  
**-VVV-**

  
When he finally woke again, Castiel was alone except for the residual warmth of Dean's body imprinted on the mattress and the faint smell of him lingering in the threads of his blanket.

Cas sat up, realized something was missing, and felt beneath the corner of his mattress for the worn Bible he kept there. It was gone.

He knew with a certainty he felt in his blood, that Dean had taken it. Castiel had always kept that Bible because of Dean, because it represented everything that he loved about the man. He'd kept it even with all of the frayed edges and torn pages. He'd kept it close to him despite his failing hope, and even though most of it had become unreadable its meaning had never truly been lost.

Dean too, had never been as lost to him as he'd thought - last night proved just that. Even with all of his lost faith and terrible bitterness, Dean had always been right there, just as worn and damaged as that Bible. He'd always been right there, just needing somebody to pick him up and tell him that he hadn't been discarded and forgotten.

And Castiel would take him for as long as Dean would have him, even if his fingers cracked and bled on all of the other man's sharp, broken edges.

**( _The End_.)**


End file.
